


5 Times The Winter Soldier Tried to Kill Steve Rogers, and 1 Time He Didn't

by stele3



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drug Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unbeta'd. Takes place during and after CA: TWS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times The Winter Soldier Tried to Kill Steve Rogers, and 1 Time He Didn't

0.

The man on the roof is not a target. He is a witness, and a hostile one—but the mission parameters had not specified the limits of collateral damage.

The soldier throws back the weapon and drops off the side of the roof.

 

1.

The man in the car is a target, as is the woman. The third and fourth, collateral. Mission parameters specify termination at his discretion.

His team is unused to attacking this way, in broad daylight with little to no cover; this is a different kind of mission, a distraction from HYDRA’s main goals, and the role fits them poorly. But they are well-trained, the only ones who survived his training, and the soldier knows they will not falter. He takes point and they follow.

(They are older than they should be. It was…he trained them all when they were young. Or, his mind tells him they were young. He does not know why he thinks they look older, or why he can’t remember any missions before this. These thoughts are short-lived, a flicker in the dark; the mission, their orders, the voice of his handler, smothers them. He takes point and his team follows.)

The targets separate and he takes the woman. The man, he leaves for his team. It is a tactical error: he had thought the woman a greater threat, more accustomed to this kind of close, urban combat. (The shot to the goggles could have killed him: he rarely goes on missions in daylight and had been careless with his shadow. He will not make the same mistake twice.)

His team fails to kill the man and the soldier quickly changes his threat analysis.

He uses each of his remaining guns. The man knocks them away and blocks his shots. He seizes the man’s weapon and tries to use it against him. The man evades his throw. He takes out his knives and engages in close combat, a flurry of blows that somehow fail to land. He should not be angry, emotions cloud judgment, but he is so _frustrated_. The target should be dead a dozen times over, and yet he is still fighting. The soldier loses his mask and

"Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The words come up out of him, a programmed response that moves his mouth without his permission or input, even as he draws the Derringer that is meant as a last resort, or for self-termination in event of capture.

A sudden blow from above and behind. The second collateral, somehow airborne. He presents the greater threat but he is not the mission, the target

is standing still, staring at him.

His stillness makes the soldier hesitate, threat analysis wavering. The target is not moving, only staring. Why? He was fighting effectively a moment ago. Is it in response to what the soldier said? What did he say? Why can’t he remember what he just said? Why did he say it?

A flicker, quickly smothered. The target is in front of him. The soldier aims.

 

2.

The target is in the building, headed for one of the rising helicarriers. The soldier follows, alone. He does not have a team or a mask. The mission has no parameters beyond the elimination of the target at all costs. He has been told that he failed, before, and this is why he is being sent in alone.

His handler did give him a new Derringer with the instructions to self-terminate once the mission is complete.

This is his punishment for failure. The soldier accepts it, though he does not remember the failed mission, or why he did not complete it. A flicker, choked and buried. He takes point and he is alone and after the mission he will put the Derringer to his head and that will be his punishment, and his reward.

He plows forward, eliminating everything between him and the target until they are face-to-face again. The target speaks but the words mean nothing; they are stillborn in the soldier’s mind, sparks that never catch flame. He is the mission. He is already dead. Punishment. Reward.

They fight. The soldier did not remember the target’s face but he remembers the way the man moves. They have fought before, he realizes, but they stopped. Why did they—?

He is the mission. He is already dead.

The target beats him, breaks his arm, chokes him. The soldier repays him in bullets for each and he can almost see it, the end, before the entire helicarrier jolts and shudders with impacts. A beam falls and he barely manages to catch it with his metal arm. He keeps it from crushing his body but it pins him to the floor, trapping his arm across his body.

The target is coming. The soldier cannot be taken alive, being taken alive means—means—he does not know what but he knows that being taken alive is so much worse than anything else. Blind panic swells, breaking through the wall in his mind, and he struggles uselessly. The broken limb flops at his side and he cannot reach the Derringer. He cannot reach it. He won’t be able to complete his orders.

Then the beam is being lifted off of him and the soldier twists free, crawls out onto the reinforced glass floor. The target slumps nearby and for a moment they both huddle, panting.

"You know me," the target says, and the words flicker and catch flame.

 

3.

Steve had expected to search, to hunt the world for Bucky, but actually it only takes nine days for Bucky to reappear right outside Stark Tower and try to shoot Steve in the head.

The only reason he doesn’t succeed—well, not the _only_ reason—is that Stark’s robot turns on the outdoor speakers and says, _"Captain, hostile at ten o’clock!"_

Steve drops to one knee and swings the shield up left-handed just in time to catch a bullet five others quickly follow, a whole clip fired in rapid succession. Pistol, fired at mid-range.

When the sixth bullet strikes, Steve straightens up from the ground and begins running towards their origin, ignoring the robot’s commands to return to the building for lockdown protocol. The shots came from the street, where a motorcycle is already in motion, tires spinning on the pavement before they catch.

The driver isn’t wearing a helmet.

Steve’s feet stumble and then spring forward even faster than before. It doesn’t matter: the bike is easily-maneuverable even in dense traffic and either Bucky remembers enough of the city to know his way around, or HYDRA programmed a map into his brain. Either, Steve reminds himself, is possible.

When he returns to the Tower two hours later, sweaty and shaken, Stark is waiting for him with a drink in hand and a glib remark on his lips. “So that’s the ex, huh? I gotta say, Cap, I’d suggest a restraining order.”

Steve resists the urge to punch him and instead says, “Can I see the outdoor camera feed?”

Reluctantly Stark obliges, providing him with a video file. Steve takes it home to DC, back to his apartment with the holes in the wall and the blood on the floor, and watches it a dozen times, pausing the file to study the hunch in Bucky’s shoulders, the nervous twitch of his head, the way his body goes taut and eager when Steve steps into view.

 

4.

Attempt number four barely counts except for probable intent. Against all advice to the contrary Steve is out jogging: his one concession to Stark’s paranoia—and Natasha’s steady stream of emails containing threat analysis—has been to change the route. It has been two weeks since the half-hearted attempt at the tower and Steve has stubbornly returned to the rhythms of his life before the Lemurian Star, before the fall of SHIELD. He has not gone looking.

It pays off at last. When he emerges from the trees Bucky is on his hands and knees beside the duck pond, vomiting stringy bile into the water.

There are other people approaching, wary but concerned, and Steve frantically waves them off as he breaks into a sprint. Bucky sees him and scrambles up, plunging into the bushes. He doesn’t get far, barely managing to stagger half a mile into the park before he comes to a heaving stop with one shoulder against a tree. He is sweaty and pale, thin and unshaven. As Steve slowly gets closer, he can see the way Bucky shakes, the mindless curl of his metal fingers as they dig into his belly, raking across his skin.

"It’s withdrawal," Steve says quietly, and Bucky jolts upright, jerking a gun from his pocket. It’s small and blunt, a Derringer. Bucky doesn’t point it at Steve, just holds it close to his side, as if afraid Steve will take it from him. He looks afraid. His pupils are huge, swollen too wide for the light.

Steve swallows and edges closer. “I read your file. They had you on a lot of drugs. You’ve been vomiting a lot, right? You can’t sleep, you don’t want to eat—maybe you’ve even been seeing things that aren’t real. I can help.”

An invisible boundary is crossed and the Derringer jerks upright and out, fixed on Steve’s forehead. He stops. Bucky is breathing short and fast. Steve can see the whites of his eyes now—white around pupil-black.

"You saved me," he murmurs. "You pulled me out of the river, didn’t you? Why’d you do that?"

"I don’t know," Bucky whispers. His voice is cracked, scraping out of him. The gun shakes. "I don’t know."

Steve shifts his weight, aching to take another step, and Bucky flinches backward then almost falls when he loses the support of the tree. Relenting, Steve takes a few steps back and pulls out the pill bottle he’s been carrying in his sweater pocket.

"These will help," he says, bending to put them on the ground. He takes out his water bottle, puts it beside the pills. "Two pills a day, one in the morning and one in the evening. If you need more you can leave the pill bottle outside my window—you know where my apartment is."

He straightens. Bucky hasn’t moved. The gun is still out but it’s drooping, like Bucky’s forgotten about it. He’s staring at Steve’s face and shaking.

Steve licks his lips and Bucky tracks the movement. “You know where I live. If you need anything… _anything…_ please. Please come to me.”

After waiting for a response that does not come, Steve turns and walks back they way they came. His back muscles tighten reflexively but no shot rings out.

 

5.

The next time Bucky uses a knife, but only because he first throws Steve the Derringer.

Steve had been woken by a crash and thud in the living room, which he later discovered was Bucky knocking into his coffee table and falling to the ground. By the time he gets out there, shield in hand, Bucky has barely regained his feet but has a knife in one hand and that blunt pistol in the other.

He throws the pistol to Steve, stock first, then lunges with the knife.

It’s barely a fight. Steve limits his participation to one hand, keeping the Derringer safely tucked behind his back and using the shield to block the wild, uncoordinated knife blows. Each swing makes Bucky stagger, knocking into the furniture and walls. A picture frame breaks. Books tumble to the ground. Despite the ineffectiveness of the attack Steve retreats, drawing Bucky onto the hallway rug.

There, he finally strikes, throwing the Derringer over Bucky’s shoulder and knocking the knife away before grabbing Bucky with both hands and swinging him up and down to land flat on his back on the floor.

That seems to spark something, because Bucky starts grappling for real, aiming blows at Steve’s face and throat. His breathing picks up—too fast, a panicked race of oxygen—and Steve can hear words in, barely formed. One word, really: _Please, please, please_ —

The metal hand gets a grip on Steve’s throat and he drops the shield to peel it away, pins it down. Locks his knees around Bucky’s hips to still them, too. “Bucky.”

"No," Bucky croaks. The fingers of his flesh hand dig into Steve’s chest, weakly shoving at him. When Steve doesn’t budge they ball up, strike once, twice. "No. I don’t want—please. Please, just—just fuckin’ kill me. Please."

"No," Steve chokes, appalled.

“ _Please—_ ”

Steve wrenches away the hand alternately grasping and shoving him, and lunges down to press his lips against Bucky’s mouth, silencing the rest of the request.

 

+1

The target picks him up off the floor easily. The soldier is unarmed and too weak to fight. He has been taken alive. He has failed.

He does not resist being carried into the target’s bathroom. It is bright and the light hurts his eyes, so he keeps them closed. It doesn’t make a difference. The target moves his body where he wants it to be, seated on the closed toilet lid, and the soldier’s input is not needed. The target talks to him, asks him things. He digs out the pill bottle from the soldier’s pocket. He touches the soldier’s face—not with his lips, like before, but with his hands, stroking back greasy hair.

The hands go away and the soldier wants them back desperately. He has no mission, he is alone, his entire body hurts, he has been taken alive, but the touching is a balm. A flicker. His body knows the target’s body; they have fought before, and they have touched before. He does not remember when.

Water turns on. The lights dim enough that the soldier cracks his eyes open. The target is moving quickly, gathering things. Tubing, a bag of fluid. The soldier rests his cheek against the counter and watches through his eyelashes.

It takes him far too long to realize there is a straight razor on the counter approximately six inches from his face. It is old-fashioned, the sort of thing they used to use together, standing hip to hip in front of the mirror and swapping the toothbrush for the razor, _hey watch your elbow there pal you watch your elbow I swear_ —

His fingers close around the straight razor, but the target’s close around his. The target is standing over him, lit soft and golden as a sunrise. Steve. Stevie. Oh, god—

"Please don’t," Steve whispers. He’s crying, completely unnoticed. He bends down and touches his lips to the soldier’s skin again and again, his mouth, the corner of his mouth, his cheek. "C’mon, baby. Don’t."

The soldier’s fingers twitch once then slowly, slowly unfold.


End file.
